


met a boy (cute as can be)

by everythingislove (straykid)



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School Theater, Costume Manager Isak, Director Even, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straykid/pseuds/everythingislove
Summary: The costume room is cramped, overheated, and smells vaguely of mildew. It’s hidden somewhere backstage at the school theater, overflowing with outfits from various past shows. The space is not even a room so much as it is a closet, making it difficult to move around.Amidst the racks and piles of clothes, Isak sits at the center, cramming costumes onto hangers. He’s the designated “Costume Manager,” which is a fancy way of saying that he’s supposed to organize the fucking chaos surrounding him. It’s ironic that he’s been given the worst job of the Grease production when he didn’t even want to be a part of it in the first place.or: the one where Isak doesn’t like theater, but he does like the assistant director Even.





	met a boy (cute as can be)

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! i got the idea of a school theater au a while back, and with all the tarjei performing in grease content recently, i was inspired to finally write it.
> 
> i actually managed to write something without angst for once, so this is 10k of pure fluff. it was a lot of fun to write, and i hope you all enjoy!

The costume room is cramped, overheated, and smells vaguely of mildew. It’s hidden somewhere backstage at the school theater, overflowing with outfits from various past shows. The space is not even a _room_ so much as it is a _closet,_ making it difficult to move around.

Amidst the racks and piles of clothes, Isak sits at the center, cramming costumes onto hangers. He’s the designated “Costume Manager,” which is a fancy way of saying that he’s supposed to organize the fucking chaos surrounding him. It’s ironic that he’s been given the worst job of the Grease production when he didn’t even want to be a part of it in the first place.

It was his friends who had insisted they sign up together, all because they had heard a rumor that the dancer chicks would be participating too. (Isak had made it a point to remind them that he was gay with zero interest in impressing women, but his friends spewed some bullshit about not excluding him because of his sexuality. Translated: they were planning on using his role at the token gay best friend to get attention from hot girls. _Again._ )

Of course, the rest of the boys had been given the cool jobs of the production. Jonas was helping to run audio, Magnus the lights, and Mahdi had been given an actual role as one of the T-birds in the musical. Isak might not have wanted to be part of the show in the first place, but he thinks anything would be better than his current job.

He tried to quit, but before he could even get the words out the director—a permanently sweaty man with the worst handlebar mustache Isak has ever seen and a glare that could curdle milk—had shut him down. And at any rate, this was probably the only respectable activity he’d have on his transcript when applying to UiO next year.

“Um, excuse me?”

Isak startles, snapped from his thoughts by the unfamiliar voice. He moves a touch too fast in an effort to stand up, knocking down the entire rack he had been working on. It hits the floor with a loud crash, and leaves half of the clothes he had just finished hanging up tangled and off of their respective hangers.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, stepping around the rumpled pile.

“Are you okay?” The voice asks. They sound genuinely concerned, which is sweet but unnecessary.

“Yeah,” Isak clears his throat, managing to get into view of the doorway. “I’m fine. What can I do for you?”

Only after he asks does Isak truly look at the person standing in front of him. It’s a boy—a _hot_ boy—who he doesn’t recognize, because he knows that he would remember a face like that. The boy has kind features and a sweet smile; the sort that has Isak’s heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.

“I’m looking for the bathroom, actually,” the boy admits with a small laugh. “This is our first day rehearsing here, so I don't know my way around yet.”

 _He’s from Bakka,_ Isak realizes.

Nissen and Bakka usually did respective annual shows, but this year, following a lack of sign-ups at Bakka, the school wasn’t going to be able to do a performance. Instead of having the kids who were interested skip out on participating in a show altogether, Nissen decided to invite them to join their own production. It was a collaboration of sorts, though the ratio of Nissen to Bakka kids was lopsided to say the least.

“Would you mind telling me where to go?” The boy continues when Isak doesn’t respond. “I’m sorry. You look pretty busy.”

“I’ll show you,” Isak says, forcing himself back to the present. He dodges another pile of clothes on the ground as he makes his way toward the door. “I could use a break.”

“I’m Even, by the way,” the boy—Even—says. “I’m part of the show.”

“I’m Isak,” Isak awkwardly  jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m the one in charge of organizing the fucking mess in there.”

“I take it you didn’t volunteer for that job?” Even asks, his lips quirking with amusement.

“Fuck, no,” Isak snorts, because _what a fucking understatement._ He shakes what he thinks is a dress off of his foot, and finally steps out into the hallway. “How about you? Did you… audition or whatever?”

“I’m the director this year,” Even says, before pausing. “Well, technically I’m the assistant director. But I have a lot of the responsibilities since the real director has been busy teaching the first years how to work the curtains properly.”

Isak pities those poor first years.

“That’s cool,” he says, gesturing for Even to follow as he starts down the hall. “You must really like theater.”

“I’m interested in directing, and starting with high school theatre is good practice,” Even shrugs. “Are you interested in costume design? Is that how you got stuck with your job?”

Here’s the thing: it would be so easy for Isak to tell Even the truth. He could admit to knowing shit all about costumes, explain that he was only here because of his friends, and laugh the entire situation off with him. But there’s a pressing thought at the back of his mind, encouraging him to try and impress the gorgeous boy standing in front of him.

And he knows that lying is wrong, that this is destined to end badly, but right now all he can think about is how fucking perfect Even’s smile is, and how he can feel the sweat on his brow. He needs to compensate for his current appearance and impress the cute boy.

“Costume design, yeah. I love it,” Isak lies, his mouth moving before he can fully think it through. “It’s one of my many passions.”

“It is?” There’s a certain glint in Even’s eyes—one that gives Isak the impression that he's more transparent than he thought. But if Even has seen through the lie, he doesn’t call him out on it.

“Yes?” Isak realizes that his answer sounds more like a question and falters. “I mean—yes. It’s amazing.”

“So you want to be the next Versace?” Even asks, a hint of playfulness behind the words.

“Maybe without the whole _getting murdered_ part of his life,” Isak laughs awkwardly. He slows his steps once the entrance to the bathroom comes into view, gesturing toward the door. “It’s right through there. Do you think you’ll be able to make it back to the stage on your own?”

Even gives him a beaming grin, and Isak can feel the heat as it rushes to his face. “I think I’ll manage. Takk, Isak.”

Isak only nods. He stands there awkwardly until Even disappears into the bathroom, and then retreats back to his costume room.

He’s not allowed to leave until rehearsals are over—Jonas’s mother is the one giving him a ride home, anyways—but he’s too tired and unmotivated to bother continuing to work. So he settles back into his chair, and pulls out his phone.

He only plans to fiddle around and play whatever game he has downloaded at the moment to pass the time, but his eyes keep finding the Instagram app at the bottom right corner of his screen. It’s something that he has never used much in the past—he’s uploaded 10 posts in the last two years, if that—yet certainly feels tempted to use now.

Against his better judgement, Isak opens up the app. He goes right to the search bar, but as soon as the keyboard pops up, he realizes that he has no idea what he’s hoping to find. (Which is, of course, a lie. Because he can’t seem to shut up the little voice at the back of his head going: _Even. Even. Even. EvenEvenEvenEven._ )

Grimacing, he shuts his phone off, feeling dirty and vaguely stalkerish. Isak isn’t going to act like some creep over a good-looking boy. He’s above that.

-

Except he’s not.

Five minutes later, he types “Even” into the search bar, only to be met with endless results—none of which are the man in question. He checks countless profiles, but after opening up the profile of a voyeuristic middle-aged man, he decides to give up. His inability to find Even’s account is unsurprising  considering that he doesn’t even know his last name, but he’s left feeling more disappointed than he should be anyways.

Isak deletes the Instagram app, opens up a game on his phone, and pretends it actually works at distracting him from thoughts of a certain cute boy.

-

“ _Fy faen,_ this place is a wreck.”

Isak can’t help but roll his eyes at the incredulous expressions of his friends. “No shit. Why do you think I complained about getting this job?”

“You complain about everything,” Jonas points out.

“I do not,” Isak grumbles.

“Uh, yes you do,” Mahdi snorts. “You complained that your macaroni and cheese was too cheesy the other day.”

And, well. _Fair enough._

“I had good reason to complain about this, though.” Isak takes a moment to stretch his arm open wide, gesturing around him. “I’m expected to handle all of this on my own.”

“Well, at least you’ll have an extracurricular for your Uni applications,” Mahdi says. He’s clearly trying to find an optimistic perspective on the situation, but it’s shitty, and Isak doesn’t see the point in sugarcoating that.

“I guess,” Isak sighs. “Have one of you at least made some progress with one of the dancer chicks?”

Jonas’s eyes light up. “No, but bro, the Bakka girls are even better.”

“They’re hot as fuck,” Magnus says, sounding exactly like a preteen talking about their favorite celebrity.

“How great for you,” Isak says dryly.

“Don’t pull that bullshit,” Jonas gives him a look. “I know for a fact there are a lot of hot Bakka _boys_ too.”

Isak tries to pretend he doesn’t feel heat rushing to his cheeks. “I’m sure there are, but I wouldn’t know since I’ve been stuck in here like a fucking hermit.”

“Are you blushing? Serr?” Magnus’s brows nearly shoot up to his hairlines. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” Isak denies. “It’s this shitty lighting back here. You’re seeing things.”

“Yes you are. It’s the same way you look you used to give that cute barista when he took your order,” Mahdi raises his brows.

Magnus’s expression suddenly turns to one of realization. “Holy shit, you met a hot Bakka boy!”

“Who was it?”

“Was it the one with all the hair? Mikael?”

“It could have been Elias, man. Have you seen his ass? If I were gay I would totally—”

“Fuck off,” Isak groans, interrupting them before he has to listen to anymore. He stands up from his chair, shoving a rack out of the way to make a path toward the door.

“At least tell us who it is,” Mahdi says, raising his brows.

Isak mumbles something incoherent, using a few choice words that probably have his grandmother rolling over in her grave. He looks up at his friends with a pinched expression. “It’s the director.”

The boys look horrified.

“You think Mr. Karlsson is hot?” Jonas balks. “What the fuck?”

“What? Nei!” Isak snaps. He might not get much action, but he’s not yet desperate enough to resort to balding, middle-aged men. “Fuck, not him. The assistant director, I guess. Even.”

“You met Even?” Magnus perks up, a grin taking over his face. He looks toward the other two boys. “I told you they’d hit it off!”

“We didn’t _hit it off,_ ” Isak splutters. “I showed him where the bathroom was and thought he was hot. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Jonas shrugs with a knowing smirk.

Isak steps toward them, shooting a pleading look. “Don’t make this into something that it’s not. He probably doesn’t like guys, anyways.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw a rainbow flag sticker on his notebook,” Mahdi supplies.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s into dick,” Isak shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Look, can you guys please drop it?”

He knows his friends, and he knows that if he doesn’t set a boundary now, they’ll pester Even regardless of what he wants. While he loves his friends, he doesn’t want them acting like their invasive selves. Not when this is the only time in ages he’s had more than a small interest in someone.

Isak is already trying to keep himself in reality, and he doesn’t need to be reeling them back in too.

“We care about you, bro,” Jonas says, slinging an arm around Isak’s shoulder. “We don’t want you to have blue balls for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t have blue balls,” Isak grumbles, shoving him off. His friends look doubtful. “I don’t! I get plenty of action.”

Magnus snorts. “Maybe with your right hand.”

“I could totally get laid if I wanted to,” Isak says, and it’s not a _complete_ lie. He probably could find someone to fuck if he dug up his old Grindr account, but that’s not something he’d ever like to resort to.

“Of course you could,” Jonas says, with obvious humor behind his tone.

“I could!” Isak insists, huffing. “Just… stay out of this.”

“Fine,” Mahdi says. “We’ll stay out of it. But when you inevitably end up with Even, we have the full rights to tell you we told you so.”

Isak flips them off, starting down the hall without them.

-

It only takes a few hours for Isak to realize that he has made a terrible mistake. He lied to Even about liking _costume design_ of all things, when just last week he wore brown, black, and white in the same outfit and nearly gave Eskild a heart attack. Fashion isn’t his thing; he’s never understood the point in focusing on what people wear, or keeping up to date on what styles are in-season.

He’s quite possibly the least qualified person to discuss anything relating to the field of fashion, which wouldn’t be an issue under normal circumstances. As is, he’s already committed to the lie, and it’s too late to back out now. He needs to be prepared to follow up on what he told Even.

He first tries to watch YouTube videos and educate himself that way, but they’re mostly cringey, repetitive, and lose his interest after a few seconds. After that fail, he attempts to search up tips on google. Unfortunately, there are apparently no “Fashion 101” blogs out there with a masterpost of anything he could ever want to know about the field, so that turns out to be a bust.

That leaves him with one option: Eskild.

It’s easy enough to find him—he’s currently on the couch, watching RuPaul and eating some sort of American candy Linn bought—but it takes him a moment to find the confidence to approach him. Finally, he wills his legs to move, and makes his way to the front of the couch. He stands in front of Eskild with as authoritative of an expression as he can muster, clearing his throat.

“I need you to teach me all about fashion.”

“Baby Jesus,” Eskild places a hand to his chest, gasping dramatically. “Are you finally asking me to give you a makeover?”

“What? No!” Isak scowls at the older man. “I just need to know about… fashion related things.”

“Is there any reason for your sudden interest in fashion? I seem to recall you getting annoyed when I tried to binge Project Runway last month.”

“That’s because that show is dumb,” Isak grumbles under his breath, crossing his arms. He knows that he looks like a petulant child, but he’s embarrassed. The odds of him ever seeing Even—let alone speaking to him—again are slim to none, so it’s irrational for him to be putting so much effort into a lie. And it’s not only irrational; he knows that it’s pretty pathetic, too.

He figures he’s desperate because he lacks other options. While there are plenty of attractive boys at Nissen, they’re mainly attractive _straight_ boys. And the ones that aren’t straight are already taken. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t know if Even is interested in guys or single either, which only makes him feel worse.

The situation is entirely pitiful, and it’s bad enough that the boys know about it. He has no plans on sharing the mortifying details with Eskild, too.

Yet, as always, Eskild seems to know exactly what Isak is thinking without needing him to voice it. “Is it a boy? Are you doing this for a boy?”

Isak remains silent, glaring at an old wine stain on the carpet.

“It is!” Eskild leans forward, interest definitely piqued. “What’s his name?”

“I’m the costume manager for the musical at school,” Isak says, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “I need to know at least a little bit about fashion. It has nothing to do with a boy.”

Eskild gives him a look, and Isak knows he’s seen the explanation for what it is: a blatant lie, and a terrible one at that.

“I’m not telling you his name,” he mumbles at last. He knows from past experiences that Eskild isn’t going to back down, and he might as well resign to that now. “But he’s a part of the show, too.”

“And you want to impress him?” Eskild has a teasing smile on his face. “Are you going to shower him with newfound knowledge about mix-and-matching patterns to get into his pants?”

Isak is tempted to get up and leave the room, and it must show on his face, because his self-proclaimed guru reigns himself back in.

“Is he interested in fashion?”

“No,” Isak relents. “He’s interested in directing.”

“Then why—”

“I might have implied that I feel very passionately about fashion so that he would think we both enjoyed theater, okay? Are you happy now?” Isak snaps. He knows that he’s being unjustifiably harsh toward Eskild, but it’s the only defense mechanism he knows. When people get too close, he tries to push them away; it seems to work on most, yet it’s never worked on Eskild.

Although he and Eskild aren’t that far apart in age, he’s come to consider him as a father figure of sorts. Where Terje Valtersen was flighty, absent, and brash, Eskild has become a constant in Isak’s life—dependable, present, and adaptable. Just like a true father and son duo, they share occasional spats; and Isak has a tendency to mouth off at Eskild.

“Yes,” Eskild’s grin threatens to take over his entire face. Apparently, he’s immune to Isak’s grumpiness by now. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“You are?” Isak poorly tries to mask his wounded expression.

Eskild lets out a soft hum, patting the space beside him on the couch. He reaches for the remote control, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Indeed I am, Baby Gay, because you and I are finally going to watch Project Runway together.”

And really. Isak should have seen that one coming.

-

By the next rehearsal, he’s officially knowledgeable enough about fashion to bullshit his way through a conversation. Or at least, Eskild said that he was after giving him a pop quiz at breakfast that morning. So if Even—or any other member of the Grease production—happened to find their way to his costume room again, he would be prepared.

He feels ridiculous for the way his eyes keep darting to the door, like a puppy waiting for their owner to get home. He’s waiting for Even to magically appear like the protagonist of some cheesy romantic comedy film, even though it’s illogical. The boy has an actual, important job in this production, and has likely already forgotten about Isak.

Which is why he nearly stumbles directly into a rack of clothing when one glance reveals Even actually standing in the doorway.

“Halla,” Even says, smiling brightly. “Are you busy?”

Isak is too stunned to speak. He stares at him with slightly parted lips and enlarged eyes, openly gaping.

“Could you do me a favor?” Even asks, stepping into the room.

Isak clears his throat, taking a deep breath. He’s willing himself to calm the fuck down and play it cool. He leans against the table he’d finally managed to clear off, going for a casual pose. “Sure. Do you need me to show you to the bathroom again?”

Even laughs, and Isak’s heart skips a beat. “No, not that. This is a costume-related favor.”

“Costumes. Right. My speciality,” he says. He can only hope that Even can’t sense the panic that washes over him. “What uh—what about them?”

“We had everyone try on their costumes earlier, just to make sure that they fit. And they did, except one of the T-bird has a hole in their jacket,” Even holds up the faux leather jacket in question, pointing to a gap along the seam. “See?”

Isak really doesn’t like where he’s going with this. “Yeah.”

“I was hoping that you would be able to sew it,” Even offers him a sheepish smile. “I know you’re busy cleaning this place up, but I figured you’d be able to do it easily.”

“You want me to see that for you,” Isak repeats, swallowing harshly.

“If you don’t mind.”

Isak does mind. He minds terribly. Because not even the six hours worth of Project Runway he binged with Eskild taught him how to sew. He knows it involves thread and a needle, but he’s certain that it involves technique and practice and _actual knowledge about sewing_ that he doesn’t have.

But Even is standing right in front of him with the most hopeful expression, and Isak can’t say no. Not only would he hate to disappoint Even, but he can’t bring himself to own up to his lie either.

So he nods, though he can feel the blood rushing from his face as he does. “I could take a look at it.” Or at least, Eskild can. His roommate always knows shit like this.

“Thank you so much,” Even sets the jacket down onto the table. “You’re make my life so much easier.”

The guilt Isak was already feeling instantly amplifies at the true gratitude in Even’s voice. “Oh. Yeah. No problem.”

He spares a glance at Even, and finds the other man looking at him expectantly. He’s confused for a moment, until he realizes that he’s staring because he’s expecting Isak to sew the jacket right now, which completely soils his plan to sneak it home to Eskild that night.

Isak swallows, turning his attention to the end of the table. There’s a pile of miscellaneous costume-related items—pins, thread, jewels, and things that Isak couldn’t even begin to identify. He leans forward, haphazardly sifting through the mess, before he makes a soft noise.

“Shit,” he says, all faux upset. “I don’t have my sewing things here.”

Only after he says that does he notice the black thread—with a needle already attached—right underneath a piece of costume jewelry. He subtlety knocks it off he edge and onto the ground, kicking it further under the table.

“You don’t?” Even has that same mildly amused expression on his face from the other day. “That’s fine. I could pick it up at the next rehearsal?”

“Would you mind?” Isak smiles apologetically, but it feels more like a grimace.

Even shakes his head, giving him a soothing smile. “I don’t mind. Like I said, I’ll just come and pick it up tomorrow.”

“Great,” Isak says.

“Great,” Even repeats. He reaches forward, giving Isak’s shoulder a soft squeeze, before stepping away. “See you tomorrow, Isak.”

He leaves Isak standing their dumbly, and regretting the day his friends signed him up for this fucking production.

-

Eskild looks entirely unimpressed when Isak lays the jacket out on their kitchen table that night. He stares first at the jacket and then at Isak, lips pursed.  “You want me to sew this for you?”

Isak barely refrains from wincing. “Yes.”

“Because you’re too scared to tell a boy that you don’t enjoy costume design?”

“I’m not scared,” Isak immediately denies, but he falters when Eskild narrows his eyes. “Okay, well maybe I’m a little bit scared.”

“This boy,” Eskild says, lifting up one of the sleeves of the jacket. “You really like him?”

“I barely know him.”

“That’s not what I asked, Isak.”

Isak remains silent, which is apparently all the confirmation Eskild needs. The man holds the jacket up properly, eyeing the hole, and then gives a small nod. “I’ll help you.”

“Thank fuck,” Isak’s shoulders sag with sheer relief.

“Don’t start thanking me yet,” Eskild steps toward the counter, yanking open the designated junk drawer. He fishes through it for a few moments, before triumphantly raising a needle and thread up. “You’re going to help me.”

“But the point of me coming to you for help is because I don’t know how to sew!” Isak splutters.

“You’re young,” Eskild shrugs. “I’m sure that you’ll be a fast learner.”

-

Isak is not a fast learner. He stabs his fingers with the little needle—which hurt a lot more than he anticipated—more times than he could count, and his stitching his awful.

It’s only twenty minutes after he starts that Eskild takes pity on him, wordlessly handing him a box of band-aids and nudging him from his seat. The older man settles down on the chair and picks up the needle, starting to correct the damage Isak did. He doesn’t say anything, only shakes his head fondly, and it makes his heart swell.

The thing is, Isak doesn’t have much in the means of family. He grew up with a flighty asshole for a father, a mentally ill mother who could hardly care for herself most days, let alone her children, and a sister who fled to an American university the moment she got the chance and never looked back.

And he never realized all that he was missing out on until Eskild came into his life. Suddenly he had someone asking about his schoolwork, forcing him to sit down and eat a real meal every day, and monitoring his self-destructive tendencies. Now, he has someone that he knows he can depend on in moments like this—someone willing to have his back and support him even when his decisions are dumb.

So, Isak doesn’t have much in the means of family. But he has Eskild, and somehow he thinks that might be better.

-

He arrives at rehearsal the following day with band-aids on four of his fingers, a pep in his step, and one mended T-birds jacket.

While he’d endured more pokes from needles and teasing from Eskild last night than he’d ever care to again, he can’t help but feel somewhat smug. He’s actually getting away with his terrible lie. It’s definitely come at a cost (he’s certain that there are quite a few spots of blood on the inside of the jacket now) but it’s working _._

For nearly two hours, Isak pretends to busy himself with tidying up a shelf piled with clutter. He ends up spending more time glancing at the door in anticipation of Even’s arrival than doing actual work, but. Details, really.

When he finally hears a gentle knock on the doorframe, it takes a conscious effort not to appear overly excited. He casually glances over his shoulder, giving Even a smile.

“Hey,” he clears his throat, turning around to properly face him. He pulls the jacket off of the rack where it’s handing, moving to lay it out on the edge of the table against the wall. “Do you want to come see the jacket?”

“You did it?” Even asks, looking more surprised than someone who had asked for the favor in the first place should. Nonetheless, he walks over, eyeing the jacket.

“Yeah,” Isak shrugs, like it was that simple. His fingers clench from the ghosts of needle pricks. “I had some free time. It was easy.”

“Easy,” Even repeats, bemused. He shakes his head fondly, running a hand back through that perfect hair of his. “You’re something else, Isak.”

Isak’s face burns. “Thank you, I guess?”

Even reaches forward, carefully nudging his hands down toward the table. Isak gets the hint and sets the jacket down slowly, watching him cautiously. “We both know that you’re not interested in costume design, so why are you trying to pretend that you are?”

_Fuck._

“I—” Isak closes his mouth almost as soon as he opens it, because what is there to say, really? He lied, and somehow Even manages to see right through him. It’s mortifying, though he knows that it’s only what he deserves.

“It’s cute how dedicated you are to this,” Even continues once it becomes apparent that Isak isn’t going to speak. “But I can’t understand why.”

“I’m sorry,” Isak blurts.

Even quirks a brow. “I appreciate that, but I’m not really upset with you. I knew you were lying from the start.”

Out of every reaction Isak imagined Even having, this was certainly not one of them. He had expected him to be hurt, offended—maybe even _angry_ —but such casual acceptance never crossed his mind. His lips part, and he can’t hide his bewilderment. “If you knew, then why did you ask me to fix the jacket for you?”

“The jacket is an old Halloween costume of mine,” Even admits. It’s an active effort on Isak’s part not to get carried away by the mental image. “It’s not really for the show.”

“So it was… a test?” Isak asks warily.

“I didn’t mean it as a test. I thought you’d own up to it then, and we would have a laugh about it. I didn’t think you’d actually…” Even trails off, his unspoken words clear in the way his gaze wanders to Isak’s injured fingers.

“My friends say that I’m stubborn,” Isak mumbles after a beat.

“Stubborn but endearing,” Even chuckles. Isak spares a proper glance at him, and his breath hitches when he inadvertently meets his eyes.

There’s a certain intensity to Even’s gaze; curiosity, mixed with an undeniable something more than he can’t quite identify. He’s looking at him like he actually sees him, and the reality of that makes his stomach flip.

“You still haven’t told me why,” Even notes.

It’s the million dollar question, Isak thinks. Why? Why would he lie to someone he had never even met about something so trivial? Why would he go to such embarrassing lengths to keep up with an equally embarrassing lie?

The simple answer is that he’s never been in the habit of making things easy on himself. He figures the whole _falling for my straight best friend and purposefully ruining his relationship_ situation from first year is proof enough of that.

The more complicated answer is that Isak _feels something_ when he looks at Even. It’s not love—because love at first sight is a concept romanticized by Hollywood for a profit—but he can admit that it’s potential. He thinks that given the chance, he could easily fall in love with him.

Isak has never even really liked a guy before, let alone considered having a serious relationship with one. The fact that he could envision that sort of thing with someone he barely even knows terrifies him. His heart and brain seem to be on two different pages when it comes to Even, and his heart keeps winning out.

Of course, he can’t tell Even any of that without coming off like a major weirdo, so he settles for a half-hearted shrug.

Even’s stare is unwavering. “Will you at least tell me why you’re really a part of the production now?”

“My friends,” Isak says quietly, “they forced me into it, I guess. And I would quit, but Mr. Karlsson is fucking terrifying, and I needed something for my college applications anyways.”

“That makes sense,” Even nods in understanding. Once again, he leaves Isak completely stunned without even trying.

“You’re really not mad?” Isak finds himself asking.

“I’m not mad,” Even says honestly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did,” Isak winces. “I lied to you.”

“I lied to you too,” Even shrugs, openly smirking now.

“You did?” Isak blinks.

“Yeah,” Even takes a step backward toward the door. “I knew exactly where the bathrooms were.”

Isak’s eyes widen with realization, his entire face instantly turning a dark shade of red. Even’s smirk widens impossibly, but he doesn’t say anything further. Instead, he tosses a wink over his shoulder as he turns and walks out of the costume room, leaving Isak to wonder exactly what his life has become.

His eyes find the jacket, still laid out against the table. He carefully folds it up, and places it on the only empty shelf available, his lips curved into the shadow of a smile.

-

So Even had known where the bathroom was that day. There was no reason for him to stop and talk to Isak, let alone ask him to show him the way. For whatever reason, he had gone out of his way for him. They hadn’t met by chance; it meant something.

Maybe he was curious about the hidden, messy room down the old Nissen corridor. Maybe he was just being nice because he could sense that Isak was nearing his breaking point. Or maybe—

Maybe he had seen Isak the way that he saw Even for the first time.

The thought leaves him breathless, but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He knows more than anyone that thoughts like that, fueled by hope and conspiracy instead of facts, are destined to lead to disappointment.

-

He ends up consulting the boys about this, because _of course he does._ They’re not relationship experts by any means, but at this point he’s open to any advice. Unfortunately, getting their advice involves the self-deprecating experience of explaining the situation to them.

“Wait—” Magnus manages between wheezy laughter, “you told him you’re a fucking costume designer?”

“No!” Isak scowls. “I told him I was interested in being one. There’s a difference.” His words only send his friends off into another fit of laughter.

“Holy shit, this is amazing,” Jonas wipes at his eyes. “I knew Even was hot, but I didn’t realize he was this hot.”

“Are you going to design your wedding tuxedos?” Magnus snorts.

“Nah man,” Mahdi’s cheeks puff up with the effort of him holding back a laugh. “He’ll have Eskild do it for him and then take the credit.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Isak mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. He never should have opened his mouth about this to them, but _desperate times_ and all of that. “I wanted your advice, not all of this.”

“Alright, we’re done,” Jonas smirks, but holds his hands up in surrender. “I don’t understand what you’re confused about.”

“Yeah,” Mahdi agrees, “it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you.”

“You really think so?”

“He’s gone out of his way to talk to you, he’s flirted with you…” Jonas gives Isak a look. “He’s fucking into you.”

“Okay,” Isak says slowly, nodding. “What do I do about it?”

“Tell him.”

“Keep flirting with him.”

“Fuck him.”

“Magnus!”

Magnus startles, perking up. “What? I think he should go for it!”

“Don’t listen to that dipshit,” Jonas rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to Isak. “Just play it cool around him. Don’t seem too eager—don’t start adding fucking smiley faces or emojis to your texts.”

“Okay,” Isak nods again. “Be chill. I can be chill.”

-

He ends up texting Even twenty minutes later with two smiley faces, various emojis, and a little bit less of his pride.

-

Under two minutes later, Even responds with the red heart emoji. He considers it a victory.

-

Grease is a good movie, Isak can admit that, but right now he rues the day it was released. In fairness, he thinks that anyone exposed to the soundtrack as much as he’s been the past few weeks would come to resent it too.

Each time the student run through one of the songs, the obnoxiously familiar tunes echo down the hall, right to the costume room. He’s tried to drown out the noise, but no matter what, the fucking music always ends up getting stuck in his head.

He hums _Summer Nights_ while helping Eskild make dinner. He finds himself playing _We Go Together_ on the walk home from school. And now, he’s even singing along with the actors as they rehearse _Greased Lightnin’._

“Go grease lightning, you’re coasting through the heat lap trials,” Isak sings, his foot tapping along to the beat. (He may or may not be using a hanger as a microphone.)

“You can sing!”

Isak abruptly stills, falling silent as he whips his head toward the doorway. His eyes bulge at the sight of Even, who is already walking toward him. The hanger in his hand clambers to the floor, and the sound echoes over the song.

“You can sing,” Even repeats incredulously. “Why are you back here if you can sing?”

“I can’t sing,” Isak mumbles, cheek aflame. “The fucking song has been stuck in my head, that’s all.”

“I just heard you singing,” Even says, “and it sounded good. Really good. You can definitely sing.”

Isak ducks his head down, eyeing the old toga-looking costumes he was hanging up before he got carried away. “Singing—theater, whatever—it’s not my thing.”

Two fingers gently tap his chin, encouraging him to life his head again. He does so reluctantly, meeting Even’s eyes.

“You’re a good singer,” Even says firmly, “but I respect that you’re not interested in doing anything about it. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

All of the breath seems to leave Isak’s lungs as his gaze remains locked on Even’s. He can barely even think, but somehow he manages to force his head into a small jerky movement he only hopes resembles a nod.

“I appreciate that,” he says honestly. The response feels inadequate for such an intense moment, but it’s the only relatively-intelligent thing he can think of.

Before either of them can speak again, a shrill voice interrupts them by hollering down the hall. “Even! Mr. Karlsson is threatening to dangle you off the edge of the stage by your feet if you don’t get back out there!”

Even and Isak grimace in sync, both of their minds drifting to that particularly unpleasant image.

“That’s my cue,” Even says, clearing his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Elvis?”

“I’m not that good of a singer,” Isak rolls his eyes. “And if I was, my name wouldn’t be Elvis.”

“You’re right,” Even reaches forward, gently tugging on a tuft of Isak’s hair. “You’d definitely be Blondie.”

Isak squawks indignantly, but Even is already backing up out of the room. So he settles for huffing at him, throwing his middle finger up as he returns his attention to the costumes.

-

The weeks pass without much change. He’s still hanging up costumes, still listening to  rehearsals, still pining after Even—but something does happen:

He and Even become friends.

They don’t get to see each other often, but Even pops in to see him at least twice each rehearsal. Sometimes he’ll walk him outside when they’re finished for the day, and they’ll sit chatting on a bench until Isak’s friends come out. He gets random texts from him, too; often times some ridiculous meme paired with a variation of _“this made me think of you!!!”_

Isak’s not sure how it all happened, but he’s not going to complain.

-

Seven days. Isak only has to survive seven more days of the hell that is the costume room until it’s all over.

It’s bittersweet, if he’s honest. He won’t miss any of the actual work, but he will miss having an easy excuse to see Even. They’ve become better friends lately, sure, but there’s still a chance that they’ll grow apart without the production keeping them close. He’s grown so accustomed to seeing Even every rehearsal that the idea of not seeing him feels… wrong.

(Read: thinking of going back to his life without Even in it scares him more than it should.)

He’s in the process of folding up some 50’s style skirts and jamming them into containers when Even arrives for drops in at today’s rehearsal. It’s enough to drag Isak away from those saddening thoughts, a genuine smile appearing on his face when he looks toward the doorway.

“Halla,” Even says. He’s leaning against the doorframe; a pose that would make anyone else look awkward, but somehow seems perfectly natural on him. “This place is looking better.”

“I guess,” Isak looks at the area around him, letting out a small snort. It looks almost exactly the same to him, only now some of the major chaos is organized into smaller piles of chaos.

“It does,” Even insists, gesturing off to the right. “I think I can actually see the floor over there now. That’s practically a miracle.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “How is the show coming along?” He asks in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

“It’s going really good,” Even says, grinning as he walks over to Isak. “We’re only a week out from opening night now, and I’m not pulling my hair out yet, so…”

“Well, good,” Isak eyes the top of Even’s head. “It would be a shame for such incredible hair to go to waste.”

“You’re one to talk about incredible hair,” Even reaches up, tipping back the baseball cap on Isak’s head back to reveal a few tufts of blonde hair.

Isak swats his hands away. “My hair is nothing special.”

“You’re joking, right? I’ve heard girls refer to it as prince hair.”

“Yeah. Girls,” Isak scoffs, righting his hat again.

“Girls,” Even mimics, laughing softly. “What’s with all the spite toward girls?”

“I don’t have _spite_ for them,” Isak shrugs. “I’m just not interested in them.”

“No?”

“No,” Isak repeats firmly. “I tried. I had a girlfriend in middle school, but it was fucking awful. So—no girls for me.”

“Do you like boys?” Even asks. It might sound casual to anyone not paying attention, but Isak doesn’t miss the interest behind the words.

“I like boys,” Isak confirms.

“Cool,” Even clicks his tongue. “I’m interested in anyone I happen to be attracted to.”

“You’re pan?”

“Yes,” Even pauses. “Is that a problem?”

“No, definitely not,” Isak says quickly. “I was just… wondering.”

And he supposes that’s true, when he really thinks about it. He’s happy with the way things have been going for him and Even, but it’s at least nice to know he’s not naive and stuck in the friendzone with a straight boy again.

Even nods, humming quietly. “Do you know what I was thinking about earlier?”

 _Me?_ A voice in Isak’s head yearns to offer, but he shoves that aside. He shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“You never told me what you’re really passionate about,” Even says. “I know you’re not interested in costume design, but nothing else.”

Isak lifts a brow. “You want to know what I’m passionate about?”

“Yeah,” Even nods. “I’ve told you all about how I want to be a director; I want to know about you.”

For a few moments, Isak is silent. He’s never been good at opening himself up to other people, at allowing them to truly see him, but he trusts Even. Maybe he’s being stupid and making a major mistake; yet he understands that he won’t know unless he puts himself out there.

“Have you studied the sky on a starry night?”

Even slowly nods.

“That’s what I’m passionate about.”

“You’re passionate about the stars?”

“I’m passionate about that feeling I get when I look at them,” Isak corrects. He hesitates, exhaling quietly. “I spend a lot of time thinking about the universe—about all of the universes out there.”

Even appears thoughtful. “What do you mean by all of the universes?”

“I believe in parallel universes,” Isak admits. It’s something he’s never felt comfortable sharing before, but now the words come easily. “I like the idea that there could be other versions of all of us out there.”

“That doesn’t scare you?”

“No. It sort of makes this universe more bearable, since I can always imagine another me, in another universe, when life gets hard.”

“That’s pretty deep,” Even says, but he doesn’t sound put off. He’s merely acknowledging a fact.

Isak rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. He needs to learn when to shut up, or at least when to listen to his friends. “I guess it is pretty deep. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Even tuts quietly. “I think it’s cool that you’re interested in all of that.”

Isak looks up at Even, slightly startled. “You do?”

“Totally,” Even poorly tries to conceal a smirk. “I’ve always wanted to watch a NASA themed porno. Space geeks turn me on.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Isak admonishes, and he just knows he’s blushing again.

“I’m serious,” Even insists. “Nothing gets me going like a pair of glasses, a lab coat, and science terms that I don’t know.”

Isak finds himself laughing probably harder than he should. “You mean instead of dirty talk, you like it when someone whispers _the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell_ into your ear?”

“Exactly,” Even somehow manages to keep a serious face while he says it, which sends Isak into another fit of laughter.

“I’ll remember that,” he says once he catches his breath again. He doesn’t even think about the implication of his words until it’s already too late to take them back.

“You should,” Even says casually. “It would be nice to celebrate opening night properly.”

Which. If Isak wasn’t blushing before, he’s definitely blushing now. He doesn’t know how Even has such a strong effect on him without even trying, but he not hates and loves it.

“I don’t know,” Isak clears his throat. “I’m sure your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or partner wouldn’t appreciate that.” It’s probably obvious that he’s just hoping for confirmation that Even is single, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Even stares at him for a solid few seconds, before he chuckles. “Serr?”

“What?”

“You’re joking, right? You have to be fucking with me right now.”

“I’m not joking,” Isak defends.

“Isak,” Even says slowly—deliberately. Like he’s driving home a point. “If I had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or a partner, I wouldn’t have spent the past weeks flirting with you.”

And there it is: the confirmation that Isak had been anxiously awaiting. He really had been mutually flirting with one of the most attractive boys he’d ever seen. It’s nothing that Isak hadn’t already assumed, but hearing it from Even lifts a weight from his chest.

“Right,” Isak murmurs, forcing himself from his thoughts. “We’ve been flirting.”

“Well, I don’t make a habit of talking about sex with people I’m not attracted to,” Even raises his brows. “I really didn’t think I could be anymore obvious about this.”

“This,” Isak echoes.

“This,” Even agrees, but it’s clear that he’s not going to elaborate on that. Instead, he tilts his head, squints his eyes ever so slightly, and then sends him a blinding grin. “You’re beautiful, Isak.”

Isak is left tongue-tied, flustered, and blundering for words as Even walks swiftly out of the room.

-

Opening night is chaotic.

Everyone is bustling around backstage frantically, anxiety thick in the air. There’s a first year bawling her eyes out in the bathroom who refuses to come out, and two students have already thrown up.

For the first time, Isak is thankful for the fucking costume room. He’s obligated to be there for every show, but at least he doesn’t have to be exposed to the hectic world beyond that door. He gets to settle back in his chair, play on his phone, and wait for it all to be over.

When the show starts, Isak dares to open the door back up—mainly because he’s starting to sweat from the heat of the room. He can hear the girls singing one of their numbers, and it brings a smile to his face.

He listens as the show goes along, imagining how proud Even must be. He knows how much work he’s put into this show, and how relieved he must be feeling now that it’s happening.

It sounds like the show is going off without a hitch; that is, until it’s time for what Isak knows is meant to be _We Go Together._ Instead of hearing the music for that song, he hears rumbling from backstage.

At first, he assumes that they must be having some technical difficulties, but after a few minutes, he knows it’s something more. Still, he doesn’t dare leave the safety of the costume room, because he wants no parts of whatever drama is happening out there.

Of course, it doesn’t work. The drama comes to him instead, in the form of Even bursting through the doorway. He’s panting lightly like he’s been running, cheeks flushed from exertion.

“I need a favor,” he says breathlessly.

“Is it another costume that needs fixing? Because I thought I told you that I don’t actually know how to sew,” Isak laughs awkwardly.

“It’s not that,” Even rushes out. “One of the T-bird hurt their ankle.”

“Okay…” Isak says slowly. “Do you need me to bandage it or something?”

“His parents are making him go to the hospital,” Even continues as if Isak hasn’t spoken at all. “We don’t have an understudy.”

It takes a moment before Even’s unspoken question clicks with him, but as soon as it does, he’s shaking his head quickly. “No.”

“Isak, please.”

“No fucking way.”

“You won’t have to do anything but sing!” Even pleads. “You won’t have any lines, you won’t even have to dance—you just have to go up there and sing.”

“I don’t even know how the songs go,” Isak lies. “It would be a disaster.”

“No more of a disaster then having one of the T-bird magically disappear for the final song,” Even runs a hand back through his hair. “I was going to submit some clips of this to schools when I apply.”

“Why can’t you submit footage from one of the other nights? Or not include the final number?”

“Mr. Karlsson only gave me permission to film tonight. Something about _disrupting the artistic process._ And this is the only scene with everyone on stage at once,” Even’s shoulders slump. “I’m not going to force you, but it would mean a lot to me, and to everyone else, if we could finish out the show.”

Isak has zero interest in being the hero of the Nissen and Bakka theater departments. He’s never dreamed of using his voice to wow an audience or having his moment in the spotlight; in fact, he’s _happy_ to blend into the background.

But Even looks so disappointed that it makes Isak’s heart clench. He can’t bear to see that expression on his face any longer, and so in spite of his denial, he knows what he’s going to do.

“Where’s the jacket?” He asks, grimacing.

“What?” Even looks completely shocked.

“The T-birds jacket,” Isak clarifies. “I’ll need the jacket if I’m going to do this.”

“He already left with it,” Even says after a moment of thought. “Shit. I doubt his parents will get it back here in time.”

Isak looks over Even’s head, his gaze settling on the shelf above him where the jacket he had fixed up weeks prior is still folded there. It feels like some sort of joke.

“Pass me that,” he says, pointing it out to him.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Even beams—genuinely _beams,_ like the sun that he is—and gets the jacket down with ease. He tosses it to him, and then watches as he shrugs it on. “I could kiss you right now.”

Isak’s heart stutters. “You could? I mean—you could. I would be fine with that.”

Even doesn’t need any more invitation. He steps forward, closing the space between them. He brings his hands up to cup Isak’s cheeks, and presses their lips together.

It’s pleasant but rushed, and before Isak truly has a chance to get into it Even is pulling back. He offers Isak a semi-apologetic smile, raising a hand so that he can swipe his thumb across his glistening lower lip. “We have to get you to the stage,” he says softly.

“Tease,” Isak grumbles playfully.

Even winks. “Think of it as motivation.”

-

Stage lights are brighter than Isak expects. He’s certain that he’s squinting like an idiot, trying to make out the shapes of the audience. He can’t see any familiar faces (Mrs. Vasquez and Jonas’s little sister are both in attendance tonight) and his fists clench by his sides with the force of his nerves.

He’s half-tempted to sprint right off the stage, but then he sees him: Even. He’s sitting in the first row, an encouraging smile on his face. He gives Isak a thumbs up and a firm nod, and mouths _you’ve got this._

Isak gives a subtle nod back. He doesn’t move from the area near the side of the stage, but when the music starts, he signs along.

-

This isn’t some cheesy movie in which Isak suddenly realizes that he’s been harboring a secret dream of being a singer since childhood. He doesn’t embrace his five minutes of fame, or work the stage with confidence. Instead, he sticks to his spot near the side of the stage, singing without actually having a presence for the song.

He feels stiff and uncomfortable the entire time he’s on stage, and as soon as the song comes to a close, he beelines right off the stage. In the wings, he grabs the first unopened water bottle he sees, sipping from it to calm his twisting stomach.

“Shit,” he breathes to himself, shutting his eyes. He blindly screws the cap back onto the bottle, the allows it to drop to the ground.

The other actors are all on stage right now taking their final bows, getting recognition for their roles in the play. Isak could probably go out with the T-birds if he cared enough or wanted to, but as is, he never wants to set foot on stage again.

“You did great,” a familiar voice says from behind him.

Isak manages to blink his eyes back open, forcing up a smile when he looks over his shoulder at Even. “Is it normal to feel like you’re going to throw up once the performance is actually over?”

“I think given your circumstances it is,” Even hums quietly, stepping closer. When he’s so close that Isak can feel hot breath on his neck, he wraps his arms around Isak from behind in some sort of reverse hug.

“Thank you,” he adds earnestly, “for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Isn’t there that saying in theater? The show always continues or whatever?”

“The show must go on?”

“Yeah, that,” Isak nods, leaning back into his embrace. “So you would have found another way to make it go on.”

“No, I wouldn’t have,” Even says firmly. He nudges him gently, encouraging him to turn around. Once Isak has complied, he pulls him into his chest again, embracing him in a warm hug.

“You did something special for me, Isak. I know that wasn’t easy for you, and it really means a lot to me that you did it anyways.”

“Well… you’re welcome then, I guess,” Isak says softly, completely content to stay all wrapped up in his arms. He might be biased, but he thinks Even gives the best hugs of anyone he knows.

Even pulls back slightly, just enough that he can look at him. Then he leans back in, gaze flicking from Isak’s eyes to his lips, their faces mere inches apart. “Could I give you a real thank you? Maybe continue where we left off earlier?”

“What?” Isak blurts. He doesn’t miss the way Even’s eyes suddenly flick to his lips, and the realization of what he’s really trying to ask washes over him. “Oh. Right. Yes. That would—yes.”

Even grins. He takes his time leaning in, allowing their noses to brush together gently. He tilts his head so that their bottom lips brush ever so slightly, before finally pressing their lips together properly.

Isak brings his hand up to cup the back of Even’s neck, threading his fingers through his hair. He melts into the bruising kiss, pressing himself impossibly closer. He vaguely registers the hand caressing his cheek, but he’s distracted when Even suddenly nips at his bottom lip.

He thinks that he could stay like his for hours, really, but a sudden eruption of gasps finally forces them both apart. They share a brief look of confusion, before Even lifts his head to see what’s going on. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, his cheeks turning impossibly red. Isak follows his gaze—or rather, looks away from Even’s slightly puffy lips—expecting to see a traumatized student who had been making their way off stage, but instead finds the entire fucking audience staring back at him.

The curtains, instead of being pulled closed at the end of the show, had accidentally been opened up all the way. Not only did the audience have a view of the entire stage (including the messy sidelines) but they were able to perfectly see Isak and Even’s makeout session too

“I think the first years need more practice with the curtains,” Isak murmurs, stunned. His face feels hot, and he can just _feel_ the judgement radiating from the parents—not to mention the dozens of cast members gawking at them from the other side of the stage.

He knows that they should be walking toward the door, but he feels frozen under the scrutiny. Even, on the other hand, seems to be taking the attention in stride now that the initial shock has worn off. He gives the audience a comical shrug, and takes Isak’s hand.

“Should we bow?” Even asks loud enough for the crowd to hear, raising a brow. He receives a collection of laughter in response.

“No, we should not,” Isak hisses under his breath. He doesn’t understand how Even can be acting so casually right now.

As if the moment could not get anymore embarrassing, the music to _You’re the One That I Want_ begins to play. Seconds later, a spotlight is out on them too. Isak is going to kill his friends for this when he gets off the fucking stage, because he just knows that Jonas (audio) and Magnus (lights) are the ones responsible.

Even chuckles quietly, seeming more amused by the situation than anything, while he’s wishing that he could melt into the floor. The faux leather jacket he’s wearing is suddenly clingy with sweat, and he wants nothing more than to get out of the view of hundreds of eyes and rip it off.

He’s about to make a run for the door, but luckily before he has the chance, the curtains are being quickly drawn shut again. When he glances toward the other side of the stage, he finds Mr. Karlsson furiously muttering as he works the ropes himself.

Isak lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, his shoulders slumping with relief once he’s officially hidden by the thick fabric. If he needed anymore confirmation that theater is not for him, he just got it. He’s never going to step foot on stage again.

“Hey Isak?”

He glances up at Even, half expecting him to spew some shit about not making a big deal out of what happened. But this is Even, who is apparently phased by nothing.

“You’re the one that I want,” Even sings, a wide grin on his face. Only then does Isak realize that the music is still playing.

“Fuck off,” he says simply.

“You’re the one that I want,” Even draws Isak in closer, then drops his hand in favor of wrapping both arms around his waist. “The one I need, oh yes indeed.”

“You’re such a fucking dork,” Isak snorts, but despite himself, he knows that he’s smiling.

Even responds by leaning down and pressing their lips together in another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated :)


End file.
